Tomorrow Comes
by Philadelphia Tuesday
Summary: Lex stages an unsuccessful intervention. (implied M/Lionel)


Disclaimer: I don't own them. :)  
  
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"I'll give you a ride," he volunteered helpfully when she returns to her desk to call Jonathan, or, more likely, a taxicab.  
  
"I hate to inconvenience you," she replied in a tone that told him while she hated to do it, she would.   
  
He bared his teeth in a friendly grin. "Don't worry about it. Just let me get my keys."

* * * * *  
  
In the car, she seems uncomfortable, constantly shifting in the passenger seat, uncharacteristically silent. He has learned to recognize the signs: this is guilt, tempered by rationalization, and as it surges over her in waves, she finds she just can't sit still. Then she calms herself down, repeating like a mantra that there's no reason to be nervous, that she hasn't done anything wrong. Except, of course, she has. Wash, rinse, repeat.   
  
He has seen this all before. But he never expected to have this discussion with her.  
  
"Are you sure you really want to do this?"  
  
"This?" She's stalling, of course, pretending not to know what he means. She's good at it. They usually are.  
  
He turns his gaze on her, and she gets the message.  
  
"Oh," she says quietly.  
  
"Look, I'm not going to tell anybody. We all have something to lose here-or at least, you and I do, don't we?"  
  
"So what is it, then? Blackmail?" She sounds genuinely puzzled, not angry. What could he possibly blackmail her for? "You might want to keep in mind that I know your secret, too."  
  
He can't help but smile. Threatened by Martha Kent? He supposes he should have expected this.  
  
"Exactly," he shrugs. "It's not about that."  
  
He waits for her to prompt him, and when she doesn't, opting instead to stare out the window, he continues: "It's about you. I'm concerned, that's all."  
  
"I appreciate that," she says cautiously.   
  
"My father is not known for his fidelity."  
  
"I know."  
  
"And Mr. Kent would kill you with his bare hands." This is, perhaps, a misguided attempt at levity, which she ignores.  
  
"I know."  
  
"Can I ask you a question?"  
  
"It's a free country," she replies, keeping her tone even, and surprising herself by pulling out her favorite line from thirty years ago. At 10, that had been her answer to virtually every question, as well as her most commonly-utilized defense.   
  
He smirks. "Why?"  
  
"I could ask you the same question," she guesses.   
  
"No, that doesn't work."  
  
"No, I suppose it doesn't."  
  
"You're not going to-"  
  
"Look, Lex," she sighs. "I'm sorry, all right? It's just something that happened. I'm sorry you found out. I don't know if it's going to stop, and I don't know if it's serious, and I don't know anything, okay? But I'm not going to ruin anyone's life over it. No one's going to find out, and I think that's the way your father wants it, too." Her hand flutters upward, smoothing her hair.  
  
"I would be surprised if that were true, frankly," he offers.  
  
She does not reply.  
  
"He's fond of you."  
  
She glances out the window.  
  
"He won't be happy to keep it a secret for very long." He pauses. No response.   
  
"Is that the sort of arrangement you and Clark have?" she asks innocently; he is beginning to realize that the honey in her voice is often tinged with arsenic.  
  
"I'm not threatening you," he replies, and they do not speak again until he stops the engine in front of the Kent farm several minutes later.  
  
"Okay," she says to no one in particular, and begins to collect her purse and coat as quickly as she can.  
  
"I'm disappointed, frankly." He stares straight ahead, as if he is still compelled to keep his eyes on the road. "I never thought you would fall for it."  
  
She stops moving. "Yeah, well." Her voice drops, and he gets it: this is the city version of Martha Kent he's speaking to now, not the one who bakes pies and is madly in love with her farmer husband and would never, ever do anything like this.   
  
He is beginning to understand that this version of her is bored out of her mind, having succumbed to the farmer's charms during a vulnerable time in her life when two thoughts were foremost in her mind: one, marrying him would really piss off her father, and two, maybe it would be nice to be taken care of instead of having to do everything herself. This is the version of her that has been forced to keep her mouth shut and her head down for twenty years, the result of a bad decision from which she could never summon the inner strength to recover. It's easier just to lie down and wait for it to be over.   
  
So that's it. This is not the woman of whom his father has taken advantage, as has been the case so many times before; this is the woman for whom his father has fallen, because the best match for someone as duplicitous as his father is someone equally adept at wearing two masks. Everyone else seems so shallow and uncomplicated. Jonathan Kent has one face, and within his family, he is in the minority. This is why Lex is so interested in discovering Clark's secret; this is why he feels the sudden urge to welcome Martha Kent to the family.   
  
"I'm sorry," he says suddenly. "I shouldn't have-I had no right. I thought I was doing the right thing, but, I don't know, maybe not."  
  
She looks at him, and he does not avoid her evaluatory stare. A corner of her mouth quirks upward into a smile. "You're just hoping I'll decide not to tell anyone about you and Clark."  
  
"Hey, it's a free country." Is it a challenge? A brief moment of understanding passes between them as they size each other up. He decides she is teasing him; she comes to the same conclusion. "Your car should be fixed by the time I get home. I'll have someone bring it to the house."  
  
"Thank you, Lex," she offers sincerely, in the cookies-and-pies tone, and he wonders if he's supposed to read something deeper into it.   
  
As he drives away, it occurs to him that this is not the way the story is supposed to go. Sometimes, the women cower and surrender immediately. Sometimes, they attempt to seduce him (and sometimes, he lets them). Sometimes all it takes is a brief recitation of his father's record. Sometimes they protest and say they haven't done anything wrong, but quickly shut up when he threatens them--sometimes there's a husband, or a kid, or a secret past. Martha Kent knows the history, and she knows she has a lot to lose, so maybe it's her own mistake to make, he muses, accelerating. He's disillusioned, certainly; he wanted to believe in the sweet-natured, loyal farm wife. But, as she had apparently learned about Clark, it is often impossible to impose upon people one's own expectations about what they should do or who they choose to be. So, what the hell? Live and let live. He turns on the radio, resolving to mind his own business where the elder Kents are concerned.

* * * * *

Martha is still standing outside the door, surveying the house and the land. It is a cowardly decision, she knows, to keep the secret forever, but she has always been inclined to take the easy way out.  
  
She takes a deep breath, puts her home-face back together, and walks inside, primed to smile and be supportive. It's going to be a long time before morning comes; it's going to be a long time before she can be herself again.


End file.
